Well, almost exactly five years and four months to the day from when it opened (yes, I am a little embarrassed about this), my husband and I finally decided to take a stroll on the High Line. It was a perfect early fall morning in NYC: wind blowing, sun shining, thickets of tourists wandering about, and the din of jackhammers and excavation trucks filling the air. The High Line is truly a marvel of architecture, vision and extraordinary landscaping. And yet, I am left feeling that it is a part of a city to which I no longer belong. I know there are a lot of voices on this matter of change, and loss of what was, and I don’t wish to delve into that conversation right now. However, let it be said that, while I don’t necessarily begrudge New York for what she has become, I don’t recognize her any more. In all of the ruminations, I did manage to catch this little snippet of ivy…undulating in the storm.

What do Rudy Giuliani, Christopher Plummer, Robert M. Gates, Frank Gehry, Ruth Ginsburg, Hal Holbrook, Angela Lansbury, Paul Volcker, Alex Katz, James Watson, Maya Lin, Peter O’Toole, John Mcenroe, Ellsworth Kelly, Henry Miller and Yo Yo Ma have in common? I know the answer, but I can’t tell. You’ll have to guess. I’ll give you a hint though: membership. Even if you don’t know, the names are impressive and the typographic variation is a joy to behold.

A Friday night departure from NYC necessitates looking at the traffic maps if one doesn’t want to get stuck in a major snarl. There are times, though, when looking at the map means nothing in terms of finding a way out. So, this past weekend, there we sat, somewhere in those dark red lines. I entertained myself by zooming in on the various traffic circles and arteries leading in and out of Manhattan.

I don’t want to be one of those people who talks incessantly about the good old days of NYC: before Giuliani cleaned up 42nd Street, when the definition of “hipster” made reference to the jazz era, and you probably took your passport on a visit to Brooklyn. Just in case. BUT, I was going through my photos the other day and came across these two portraits of Pablo the Rooster. He lived on the Lower East Side close to Canal Street. He had free reign of the alley that ran between two buildings. I know, from a reliable source (and to my great relief!), that he wasn’t part of a Cockfighting ring. Better yet, he had plenty of hen friends who shared his 100 square feet of pavement. They even had a nice little grassy spot where, on any given day, they could be found digging for bugs. So, while I know there are lots of good things to be said for urban development, and I certainly wouldn’t want to be woken up every morning by his crazy loud crowing, I still miss the good old days when you could be walking along in Manhattan and come across a rooster just running free on Ludlow Street.

Maybe I’m not getting out enough, but this is the first time I’ve seen a “C” grade posted in a window of a restaurant. What, I wonder, does one have to do in order to qualify for such a stellar mark. Here is your answer. And, while it’s not pretty, I’m not sure the almost failing mark would stop me from going to my favorite restaurant.